


I don't need a vacation

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Male Slash, Vacation, fandom: sherlock holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was on edge, more so than usual. John hadn’t even thought that was possible, but it was.</p><p>John and Sherlock are on vacation, Mycroft's orders. A bit of angst and a lot of fluffiness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I don't need a vacation

**Author's Note:**

> For FuckYeahJohnlockFanfic's vacation challenge. I haven't actually looked at the rules for it in forever so my apologies for any mistakes. In any case, this was fun to write and I hope you enjoy it. Cheers! :D

“This is ridiculous, John. I don’t  need  a vacation.”   
  
He spit the word out like it was poison.  Vacation .    
  
John sighed and turned his head to look at Sherlock. He was thinner than usual, deep patches of purple resting on the sharp, pale cheek bones of his sunken face. His eyes twitched about quickly and constantly, tracing every contour of every spec of dust in their range of sight.    
  
Sherlock Holmes was on edge, more so than usual. John hadn’t even thought that was possible, but it was. After much persuasion (Lestrade refused to let him work on any more cases and Mrs. Hudson had given him quite the speech) Sherlock had reluctantly agreed to take a three days vacation. John Watson was already wishing he had stayed at home.   
  
“John, this is boring. We should have just ignored Mycroft and stayed at home.”   
  
John groaned and put his face in his hands.   
  
“Oh for the love of God, Sherlock, just shut up. We are going on a vacation and there isn’t damn thing you can do about it, so just  shut up .”   
  
Sherlock did shut up, at least for the time being. He turned away as if John had slapped him. He was behaving like a child; a particularly intelligent, tall child, but a child none the less. It made John want to rip his hair out.   
  
Still, he couldn’t help but worry. Two weeks ago, everything had gone downhill. Sherlock had started eating less and less, spending more and more time hidden away in his room, and in a matter of days he had become a ghost-like shell of a man. Barely there. Hiding away from the world in his own, tangled mess of a mind.   
  
John would never admit it, but it hurt him deeply to see Sherlock in this state. To see a beautiful man (yes, John decided, beautiful was the right word) reduced to a sunken mess of befuddled insanity.   
  
Yes. Vacation was necessary. But John wasn’t sure that Sherlock would be on vacation, not really. He wasn’t trapped in London; he was trapped in his own head.   
  
The car slowed to a stop. John looked out the window. There was a small cottage on a hill, nothing else in sight. It was peaceful and beautiful, with flowers under the windows and a nicely painted white fence. Trees littered the landscape, and birds could be heard chirping merrily around them. The sun was just beginning to set. Nothing but absolute peace and untouched bliss.   
  
In short, it was Sherlock Holmes’ worst nightmare.   
  
John glanced at Sherlock. He didn’t seem to notice the house, nor did he seem to care.   
The driver unlocked the doors and glanced at Sherlock. His eyes widened slightly and he shook his head, muttering something under his breath.   
  
John clenched his jaw and got out of the car.   
  
“Sherlock? You coming?”   
  
Sherlock climbed out of the car, his body stiff and his face twisted into a grimace.   
  
John stared at him for a moment. He felt a sudden, absurd impulse to walk forward and wrap his arms around the man, to melt the ice that had so long surrounded his heart. He wanted Sherlock back; not the Sherlock that stood before him, the old Sherlock. The neurotic one. The one that shot at walls when he got bored, and talked to skulls, and smiled every time he encountered a new case.    
  
John sighed and they walked inside, neither of them saying a word.   
  
It was going to be a long weekend.   
  
\--   
  
Sherlock immediately went into one of the bedrooms, slamming the door and locking it.   
  
Terrifying confusion. That was the only way to describe the state of his mind. Sherlock was capable of handling dangerous situations and solving complex problems with ease and precision. But emotion. Emotion in its purest state was something that Sherlock could not break down or analyze.   
  
And it scared him. It scared him more than anything in the world.   
  
He sighed in frustration and fell face-first onto the bed. Love. The one thing he had become so skilled at avoiding and ignoring, come to claim him at last. He hated it with a passion, and yet it filled him with absurd glee. It caused him to starve himself and deprive himself of sleep, yet it made him laugh and smile with happiness at the most inappropriate moments.   
  
And it just wouldn’t go the hell away.   
  
That was the thing about it all that troubled Sherlock the most. A portion of him really didn’t want it gone, and by that portion it survived and thrived and ate Sherlock alive.    
  
He knew that love didn’t ever end well. It couldn’t. Death is inevitable. People lie. Love is one of the top causes of crime. It drives people to madness. Sherlock had observed; he knew he was right, he knew he couldn’t love, and he knew that a life with love in it would be one of misery.   
  
And yet, after his years of avoidance, only one thing scared Sherlock Holmes more than a life with love: a life without love.   
  
He knew it was pointless anyway. John had no feelings for him. He simply couldn’t. There was no possible way; he was straight, after all. But sometimes, Sherlock wasn’t sure. Sometimes...   
  
Sherlock sighed and got up, walking out of the bedroom. He needed to busy himself, get his mind off of John. He knew the chances of his phone working were slim, but he might as well try.   
  
\--   
  
John only knew that Sherlock was hiding away in one of the two bedrooms. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he was worried.   
  
John sighed. So, so worried. Why was he worried? It was Sherlock, after all. Sherlock was prone to being strange and acting in strange ways. But for some reason, this time... Something was out of place, something huge, and John couldn’t figure out what.   
  
John sighed. He knew that his feelings for Sherlock had... Changed. Drastically. He cared for him so deeply, so profoundly. Seeing him in this state, so lost, so confused- it was heartbreaking.   
  
He knew that Sherlock had no feelings for him. He simply couldn’t. There was no possible way; he was a sociopath, after all. But sometimes, John wasn’t sure. Sometimes...   
  
“John?”   
  
Sherlock’s voice shattered the silence, causing John to jump slightly.   
  
He cleared his throat and turned to face the man, who stood in the entrance to the narrow hallway.   
  
“Yes?”   
  
“You have my cell phone,” he said, his voice monotone, “I slipped it into your pocket before we left, just in case.”   
  
John grabbed his coat off of the rack and dug into the front pocket. Sure enough, Sherlock’s cell phone was there. John handed it to him.   
  
“Thank you.”   
  
Sherlock sat down on the couch and unlocked his cell phone. His thin, spidery fingers were dancing across the keyboard faster than John could begin to comprehend. John simply shook his head and sat back down.   
  
Sherlock groaned.   
  
“Damn it, Mycroft! No internet. No signal. Useless. Everything is useless. Every one is useless.”   
  
John winced at that.   
  
Sherlock tossed his phone onto the coffee table, not even bothering to turn off the screen. They sat there in silence, for a moment. Sherlock was looking forward, his eyes wavering, his elbows resting on his knees. John stared at him. He looked so... Haunted. So desperate. A man clinging to a spider’s silk, trying to climb a mountain. He lacked his usual effortless grace. His loud, condescending voice had been reduced to a soft whimper. This was not Sherlock. Not the Sherlock John knew.   
  
“Sherlock. Please. What’s wrong? You’ve been at this for weeks. Just... Tell me. What’s wrong?”   
  
Sherlock was silent for a long time. John was patient.    
  
“Nothing is wrong , John.”   
  
John let out a long sigh of frustration and stood up, looking down at Sherlock.   
  
“Like  hell  nothing is wrong! Sherlock, you’ve been starving yourself to death, you sleep even less than you used to, you look like a bloody ghost half the time, fidgeting and mumbling and you just... You’re a dead man walking, Sherlock. Mycroft is worried, Lestrade is worried, Mrs. Hudson is worried. Even Anderson is worried, not that he’ll admit it. And... I’m worried. Please, just tell me.”   
  
Sherlock said nothing. He clenched his fists tighter and tilted his head slightly upward, parting his lips as if he were going to say something. He closed them again. And then he opened them, and this time, words came out.   
  
“I’ve fallen in love with you,” Sherlock said, “And I have no idea what to do about it.”   
  
John’s heart stopped. He drew in a sharp breath. Everything fell into place, everything made sense, and everything was somehow even more confusing.   
  
Silence. John sat down next to Sherlock. Sherlock turned away, refusing to look at John. They sat there, for awhile, letting realization settle in and shock fade away.   
  
“Feelings,” Sherlock said, his voice shaky, “I just... They appear out of nowhere and take you over and- I can’t handle them. So vapid, so pointless, so ridiculous and human. They make me wish I could tear out my mind and replace it with something more useful.   
  
“Three weeks ago, after thinking for a long while, I came to the sudden realization that- that I cared deeply, too deeply and it scared me and I wanted it to go away. Useless! Everything is so useless! No matter what I do, it just-”   
  
John grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled him into a kiss. He wasn’t sure why he did it, or how he mustered up the courage to, but he did. Sherlock was shocked, his body suddenly frozen solid, his eyes wide open. It was a chaste kiss. One that lasted only a few seconds, nothing more than a fumbling of dry lips.    
  
They stared at each other for a moment. John was the one to break the silence.   
  
“Sherlock... You don’t have to be ashamed of your emotions. Emotions can be beautiful. You just have to learn how... to handle them, I suppose. I can’t really see things from your point of view, but I... I dunno.”   
  
Sherlock stared at him, his eyes furrowed. He looked him up and down, inspecting him, investigating every curve of his body. John was so... Human. So flawed, you so flawless, so broken, yet so perfect. It was strange to him, but for once, he allowed himself to see without being scared.   
  
Their eyes met.   
  
They stared at each other, for a while. Or at least it felt like a while. It could have been a minute, or a moment, or a second, perhaps even less than that. No words. Just eye contact.   
  
“Sherlock, I-” John paused slightly, “I love you too.”   
  
The words were awkward and felt strange rolling off of his tongue, but they were perfect, and filled with emotion, and they held so, so much truth.   
  
“Really?”   
  
Sherlock’s voice was solid, but the pitch seemed a bit off. Shock. Surprise? John wasn’t sure.   
  
“Really.”   
  
John moved closer to Sherlock, placing his short, tanned hand over Sherlock’s long, pale one. Electricity. John moved his hand slowly up Sherlock’s arm, before resting it on his shoulder.   
  
And then, suddenly, they were kissing again. Johns hands were on Sherlock’s waist, Sherlock’s hands on John’s arms. It was a slow kiss, much less awkward than the first. With every second that passed they moved closer to one another.    
  
John deepened the kiss. Sherlock was surprised, but he did not protest. John moved his hands to tangle through Sherlock’s thick, black hair. They were so close that it was almost impossible to get closer, but they were trying. They were a tangled mess of limbs and kissing, pausing only for brief breaths.   
  
And then, finally exhausted, they broke apart.   
  
Sherlock laughed. It was strange, coming from his mouth, but it was a legitimate, real laugh.    
  
“I thought you were straight.”   
  
John snorted.   
  
“I thought you were a sociopath.”   
  
“Fair enough.”   
  
And then they were laughing, still on top of each other. It was strange, and ridiculous, but neither of them cared.    
  
Sherlock was back, and John had never been happier.


End file.
